Keeping Faith
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: A series of one-shots, tie-ins, and timestamps relating to "Catching Hell" and "Chasing Glory." WARNING: Contains an AU, unrelated Wincest, demon!Dean, and a whole slew of kinks, most falling somewhere along the BDSM spectrum.
1. Bones for Time

_Dean thinks Sam needs to practice fighting off a demon. Sam agrees, so he reluctantly allows Dean to possess him. Once he's actually in his body, though, Dean quickly becomes distracted._

* * *

"I just don't get why." Sam picked at his turkey sandwich. "Wouldn't you be able to sense any that even got close to us? I mean, you'd definitely be able to sense it if I got possessed."

"Yeah, but I'm talking about a just-in-case thing. If I'm ever not around."

"Why wouldn't you be?"

Dean didn't answer. Something twisted hot and hard inside Sam's left calf, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject. It didn't help the pain all that much.

"In that case, there're charms I could wear. I know how to make at least three. There're tattoos I could get…"

"You can lose charms, or somebody could steal 'em," Dean pointed out. "Tattoos can be burned off. We can do that stuff, definitely can't hurt, but the best thing you could possibly do's learn how to recognize when somebody's trying to possess you, and fight it off. Last line of defense." He picked up his complimentary coffee, sniffed it. "You've never been possessed before, not even by a ghost. You got no experience, but we've got everything we need to give you some right here."

"Ghost possession's really rare. Demonic's even rarer."

"Not anymore." Sam swallowed. "Look, Sam. I'd just feel a whole lot better about…hunting, and the Trials, if I knew that you knew how to throw a demon."

That got Sam's attention.

"So…when and where d'you wanna do this, then?"

"Well, not a whole lot else we can do right now." Dean gestured out the window, where a storm that their waitress had referred to as a gullywasher was socked in. "So we can do it today. Back in the room."

"You serious?"

"Dead, Sammy." Dean motioned for the check, then grinned at Sam. "Can't wait to get home and get inside you."

Sam rolled his eyes.

* * *

Back at the motel, the very first thing Dean did was fix Sam's ponytail for him. His hair had frizzed out hard in the humidity, just like it always did, rapidly passing "annoying" and heading for "totally unmanageable." He missed the mountains.

He liked the feel of Dean's fingers on his scalp, though. In his hair. Just like always. He wondered what it'd feel like when Dean was actually inside him in the truest sense of the word, no barrier whatsoever between their souls.

"Okay." Dean patted Sam's shoulder once the mess on his head was as secure as it was going to get. "Go ahead and lay down. This might be…uh, not a whole lotta fun, and I don't want you hurting yourself if you thrash around or something."

"Is it really gonna be that bad?" Sam asked with a frown. "…you've been riding your own body for years, haven't you? How much experience do you actually have with this? Possessing people."

"Enough."

"How long's it been since you were in somebody else?"

"'S fine."

"I'm just not sure this is gonna be a useful – "

"Sam. Look." Dean cut him off. "I got this, okay? Trust me. Now lay down, on the bed, so that we can get it over with."

Sam didn't ask anything else, kicking his boots off and going for the bed. He steadied himself without thinking about it. Seven and a half years of muscle memory.

"What the hell're you doing?"

Sam flushed, corrected himself. His healed, whole left leg functioned without any issue. "Nothing."

He laid down. Dean settled in next to him, and Sam didn't say anything when he took his hand. It helped some, where Sam's calf was cramping passively.

"Gonna be fine," Dean assured. "Won't take that long." A pause. "Course, we might end up doing it again and again. And again. If you can't get the hang of punching me down inside your body."

"That's awesome," Sam deadpanned. "Can't wait."

Dean chuckled, and then he must have unhitched himself from his body, because black smoke began churning fast into the air above them.

Sam pushed himself up just in time to see the last of it leave Dean's mouth, and then Dean's head fell to the side, eyes and face blank. He knew that if he felt for a pulse, there wouldn't be one. His stomach lurched and his calf tightened. The last time he'd seen Dean like this, it'd been back at the cabin, Gordon's corpse cooling out in the main room and Dean's soul in Hell.

Right now, though, it was here. The cloud had collected just below the ceiling, and Sam looked up at it. It was tough to connect it to Dean. Sam knew, logically, that was his essence, the real him, but some part of him didn't believe it.

He laid back down, staring up at it (_him_) as it boiled and shifted above him, a microcosm of the stormclouds outside. It was a deep, rich black, but the longer Sam looked, the more convinced he got that there was a green tint to it, deep inside and around the edges. Like the clouds that formed tornados. There was some sort of lightning flickering at its heart, too, and the entire thing held a velvety depth. It was like looking at one of those illusion books for kids, but a really good one, the kind that nearly made you feel like the two halves of your brain were sliding away from each other because it didn't make sense. Sam almost thought that if he reached through it, it wouldn't be the ceiling of the motel room he touched.

So this was what a Knight of Hell looked like. Damn near the toughest thing in existence, the being with the most staying power, period, only excepting the top two archangels.

Sam jolted out of it some, realizing that he'd lost almost a minute just looking at Dean. Time to get this show on the road.

"Come on. Hurry up." Sam smirked a little, false bravado. Could Dean feel how nervous he was, outside of a body? That was something to ask him once he could talk again. "Or are you waiting for me to get the lube out?"

Dean took that as permission, apparently. He rushed Sam, who had a split second of full-blown panic when he was dead certain he didn't actually want to do this, but then Dean was in him, entering him through his nose, mouth, eyes. It smacked his head back into the flat motel pillow, his body arching off the mattress as every muscle flew taut. Sam let go of Dean's hand as he dug his fingers into the bedding, fisting tight, sweaty handfuls.

It didn't hurt, not by any means. But it sure as hell wasn't comfortable, either.

The texture of it was about what he'd imagine swallowing leather might feel like if somebody blended it up into a shake. He could feel the crackle of the ozone that came before a lightning strike or a ghost attack on his tongue, and of course it all smelled and tasted overwhelmingly like sulfur. Sam would've gagged if he could but it also, for some reason he couldn't even imagine, got a little half-twitch out of his cock. He collapsed weakly onto the bed as it ended.

Dean's smoke didn't fill Sam's lungs or stomach once he was in. He flooded every inch and crevice of him like a liquid, shadows falling along his joints and bones like they were meant to be there. Dean knew what he was doing, where he was going. Sam could feel him, snug in his head and heart alongside himself, and it was strange. It felt like a violation, his body wanted to reject Dean. But at the same time, it also felt oddly right. Safe. Good.

Dean was soft and living armor under Sam's skin. It felt like his voice, his movements, the flicker of his eyes and fingers, his jokes and the gentle way he brushed Sam's hair out of his face and the drape of his arms when he held him. All of it, condensed down into something that coiled around Sam's organs and seeped into the cracks in his brain. A distillate in his blood and breath, whispers and grinning kisses inside his cells.

Sam's eyes had fallen closed when Dean was in the process of coming in. He could feel tears gathering under his lids now and wasn't quite sure why.

Apparently, Dean wasn't, either. _**Why're you crying? **_Sam jumped a little. It was Dean's voice, but…rougher. Older, somehow. There was a sharpness to it, a razor blade with two dozen different sides, and it also sort of sounded like several of him were talking at once. This must be what he sounded like inside his own head, which kind of...blew past weird, all the into "alien" and "unnerving."

_**I don't think you want a weirdness contest. I got plenty of ammo in here already. Like how goddamn bright it is in here, dude – seriously, I've seen a lotta souls, I don't think that's normal.**_

Sam cringed.

_**Are you crying 'cause of your leg?**_

His leg…yeah, it was cramping pretty hard, but it was kind of a distant thing for him at the moment. Most of what he could feel was Dean.

_**Aw, Sammy. You're gonna make me blush.**__**Even harder than I was when you were ogling my smoke.**_ Sam could feel Dean's focus, and it was on his left calf. _**Why the hell's it still so messed up? I **_**fixed **_**it. Why's it hurt? Why're the muscles doing that?**_

"W – "

Sam didn't even get out a full syllable before Dean shut his voice down. Or took control of his throat, probably. Sam jerked, wondering how in the fuck he was supposed to answer.

_**You can still talk, dumbass. Just think at me, okay? But pretty much no demon out there's gonna leave you access to your voice. And we're practicing here. Speaking of practice, lemme tell you what I'm gonna do: leave you in charge of breathing. Among other stuff. Could automate it, like I've got on my meat suit, but it's a hell of a lot harder for you to fight back if you've gotta focus on managing your bodily functions.**_

Sam was, all of a sudden, incredibly and horrifyingly aware of breathing. And swallowing his saliva. And keeping his eyes closed (that was a conscious choice? It'd never occurred to him). But he managed, _You're talking about bodies like they're cars._

_**That's all they are. Machines. And it's better to think of 'em that way. You're not fighting me for control of **_**you**_**, you're fighting for control of the meat-robot you ride around in.**_

Dean sat him up all of a sudden, and Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the remaining tears that were blurring his vision. It was massively disorienting, his body moving without him wanting it to. It actually made him kind of nauseous. But then Dean dismissed the feeling, and the nausea vanished.

Dean turned to look at himself. _**Wow. Am I one sexy son of a bitch or what?**_ He reached out to stroke his gelled-up hair, run Sam's fingers down his body's face, and Sam rolled his eyes.

_Dude. Seriously?_

_**Yeah, seriously. I never get to do this. When I look in the mirror, all I see's my real face. **_A pause. _**For real, what is up with your leg?**_

He reached down to rub at the calf through Sam's jeans. _**Super weird it's cramping like that, you'd think I never fixed it at all.**_ Then he made everything release.

It was kind of like he'd snapped his fingers inside Sam, except there was no snap and no fingers. The pain and tightness were just instantly gone, and Sam definitely wasn't going to bitch about that.

_**Good. 'Cause I got enough to bitch about for both of us. Like, how d'you stand all this hair? You got any idea how obnoxious it is? And d'you even know how much tension you're carrying in your shoulders? **_He swung Sam's legs over the side of the bed. _**Ooh, shit, these're long. You're just big, aren't you? **_Dean looked around, focusing on a couple different things, then grimaced with Sam's face. _**Forgot how much human vision sucks. And yours is even pretty good. Gimme a sec, okay?**_

There was a flicking noise, a sudden flash of darkness, and then Sam's vision was exponentially brighter, crisper. It was like putting on glasses after spending his entire life without knowing he needed them. He could see individual raindrops falling outside their room's window, the wood grain on a building across the street, silent lightning dancing in red and blue flashes high up in the dark clouds. His eyes, he realized, had just gone black.

Dean got Sam up, walked him around like a puppet or a toy. The gait felt weird, different from how Sam usually walked. More swagger to the shoulders, feet spaced oddly, like he was compensating for slightly-bowed legs.

Dean made it maybe three feet from the bed before exclaiming, _**I knew it was big, Sammy, but damn…how the hell d'you walk around with this monster cock hanging down your leg all the time?**_

Sam blushed, actually saw the heat around the edges of his new eyes. Dean grinned inside of him, he could swear he felt it. _**Not that I can't handle it, of course.**_

Sam got halfway through rolling his eyes before Dean took that away from him. He switched his eyes back, too, and Sam actually missed the demon vision, even if it'd made obvious how filthy their room was.

The black eyes being gone made something else obvious, though. It wasn't just Dean Sam could feel inside him, it was power, too, obscene amounts of it, more and more reaching his notice by the second. Napalm and uranium laid dormant in his muscles, a thousand volts thrummed quietly through each vein. He didn't have access to any of it. But if he had, it felt like he could disperse the storm above with a wave of his hand, crush the motel straight to the ground, run all the way to Argentina without so much as breaking a sweat.

_**You could, **_Dean agreed, _**but then you'd drop deader than a doornail the second I left your body. If a demon pushes you past your limits, you'll die, and then their energy'll be the only thing keeping all your organs running. They can hold your soul hostage that way, keep it from going up. Or down. But in your case, it's definitely gonna be up.**_

This energy, Sam was pretty sure could keep him alive for a million years. It was a blue star in his chest, requiring constant tiny adjustments to keep it from going supernova. He could feel the way that Dean was self-correcting almost every second, and it blew him away.

_So what'd happen if you just…stopped holding back?_

Sam's mind was suddenly full of a picture that hadn't come from him. Most of western North America replaced by a gaping crater pouring smoke into the atmosphere, the ocean from Hawaii to Japan black with debris, and what remained of the continent scarred and glowing. His heart lurched into his mouth, but then it was gone.

_**Probably not anything near that big, **_Dean admitted. _**But I don't really know, and I'm sure as hell not gonna find out.**_

Sam couldn't deny it was more than a little scary, that Dean had to be thinking about it constantly to keep something like that from happening. He'd thought he was in better control of his powers. Hadn't anybody taught him more effective methods? Were there even any?

Dean's irritation scraped over him like a Brillo pad. _**I can keep a lid on it just fine. You really think I'm gonna go Chernobyl in the next five minutes?**_

_No. Sorry__. _Sam was going to have to try and keep his thoughts under control.

_**Yeah, I'll say.**_

He was still mad. Sam could feel that like an offshoot of his own emotions, wondered if that was what it was like for Dean all the time, but as soon as he thought that, Dean's feelings were closed off to him. He winced inside himself, apologized, but Dean didn't acknowledge it.

_**Y'know, you're not really fighting back at all, **_Dean pointed out eventually as they wandered around the room. _**Can't really give you any pointers 'til I know what I'm working with here.**_

_Right. Sorry._

Sam really didn't have any idea what he was supposed to do. Just move his body on his own? As they passed the bathroom, Sam tried to turn and go in, but didn't manage to make so much as a single nerve fire.

_**Is that it? **_Dean asked incredulously. _**Seriously? Sam, that was pathetic. Is that really all you can offer? Jeez, I guess you're kind of a wimp once you're cut off from these, huh? **_He flexed Sam's biceps appreciatively.

Stung, Sam tried harder, threw more of himself into it. He turned his head, so jerkily he was sure he pulled a muscle doing it, and then Dean put him back down, smoke against his soul like an empty velvet glove.

_**You're gonna have to try a whole lot harder than that. C'mon, Sammy, I've seen so much better from you…where's all that fire now?**_

He grabbed Sam's backpack, putting it on the table and taking out his laptop. As he fired it up, Sam demanded, _What're you doing?_

_**Gonna look at porn. What else? **_Dean sat down. _**I love the internet. Back when I died, you had to go to a newsstand and buy a skin mag, and if you were looking for anything other than girls or vanilla, you were screwed.**_

As Dean typed in the password he shouldn't have known, Sam took a second to try something out, sort of folding in on himself to try and shield his thoughts. He doubted it was going to work, but it must have, because Dean praised, _**Attaboy, good start**_ as he swiped over the trackpad.

Sam's backpack was still within reach. There was a flask of holy water in the side pocket, a canister of salt in the gaping front one. The water was closer but he'd have to unscrew the lid if he went for it, so salt it was.

He threw himself against Dean's smoke, and it felt like he punched through it to seize his own arm. He lunged for the salt, but his fingertips barely brushed the canister before Dean snapped his wrist to the table, pinning Sam in place with his will.

_**I'm actually impressed, that was - **_ Dean stopped abruptly. Sam knew he was feeling something off him, tried to hide it, but he was still in charge of his breathing and was having to pant, so he wasn't quick enough. It wasn't just in his soul, anyway, it was his body, and he didn't know how to cover that up. _**Are you actually getting off on this? **_He paused, as Sam flushed so hard and deep he was sure his soul turned pink. _**Wait. You've got a bondage kink, don't you?**_

_Uh, no, I definitely don't! _Sam tugged at his wrist. It wasn't budging, and a second later, Dean herded him out of his arm anyway.

_**Oh, you definitely **_**do. **_**I'm inside you, remember? I can feel everything you feel. 'Specially this. **_

Gleeful, Dean rolled Sam's hips, straining swollen cock against fabric, and Sam seethed. A second later, though, Dean sobered. Sam felt him even out inside him. The barrier between their emotions was gone now, apparently.

_**It's actually real common in hunters, **_Dean explained. _**Having a thing for being tied up, I mean. Held down. Especially if you were raised in the life. Think about it. You're into psychology, right? You grow up learning how to tie and break knots, practicing how to get outta cuffs, rope, zipties. You're just obsessing over being captured and tied up, you get taught to fixate on that, being caught by things you're hunting. Your dad tells you it's the worst thing ever to not be in control of the situation. Being at somebody else's mercy is the ultimate taboo. **_

Sam swallowed, and not just because his mouth was full of spit. He'd gotten harder during Dean's little Freud lecture, even though he hadn't meant to, shape of his dick fully visible now in his loose jeans. Dean had noticed that, too. Sam could feel his delight.

_**New plan, **_Dean announced.

Dean straightened up, putting Sam's arms behind his back. He crossed his wrists, holding them firmly there like they were tied in place, and hooked his ankles around the legs of the chair. It honestly felt like he was bound. Sam felt his heart rate rise.

_What're you doing?_

_**If you don't like it, stop me. I know you've got the juice to do it.**_

Sam felt Dean's hold over his body relax. He could take control back right now if he wanted to, piece of cake. But he didn't move, just floating free inside his own flesh.

_**Thought so. **_Dean was smug.

Sam's belt, button, and fly undid themselves, Dean's telekinesis like gathering sparks in his smoke. Sam protested (_Now what're you doing? Stop!_), but still made no move against Dean. Goosebumps were coming up on his skin, nipples hard, his breathing fast and his cock more than half-erect.

Dean pulled him out, and it was odd, wrong, thrilling, being held in place and touched by something inside his own body that wasn't him. Sam was swallowing hard, over and over again, muscles straining and trembling.

Dean could feel it all, Sam was fully aware. How good it was. How bad he needed it. He also knew Dean wasn't going to stop, and that just made Sam harder.

_**Seriously, dude, you're fucking huge,**_ Dean commented, almost casually. _**You got any idea how much fun I'm gonna have playing with this thing? Almost wish that it was mine…although I guess it does kinda belong to me, doesn't it?**_

Sam swallowed again, and a bead of precome gathered pearly in his slit.

_**Would you look at that…I knew you got wet, but it's pretty early for that, don't you think? You're not even all the way up yet.**_

Dean's psychic touch on Sam felt almost like a hand, but not quite. It shifted, fluid, and there were too many fingers, so maybe it was a few hands coming from multiple directions, stroking him expertly out to his full length.

_Cut it out. _Sam gasped even inside his own head. _Th-this wasn't part of the deal._

_**You can stop me any time you want. **_Maybe they were tentacles, the way they wound around Sam's girth, not hands. _**Fight me off, Sammy. I'm a demon, I'm possessing you, I'm doing something with your body you don't… **_Dean's smirk blazed against Sam's soul. _**…want me to. Don't you want me gone?**_

He flexed Sam's biceps and lifted his wrists a little, like an invitation for Sam to break his hold and get loose. Sam didn't take it, and Dean smirked again, this time with Sam's mouth. Then he kept stroking.

The touch all of a sudden changed. Sam jumped, gasping, which was how he realized just how much control Dean had ceded to him. It was like a mouth now, warm and wet and soft, but the hand-things were still there, too, moving in gentle circles around his shaft and crown. There was even a light stroking on his balls. He could see the dusky skin on his cock moving, just barely, under invisible pressure, and that should've been gross. Sam kind of wanted it to be gross. But it was hot instead.

Sam's thighs shuddered as he dripped precome onto his jeans. He moaned out loud, stomach tight.

Dean's smoke, twined with Sam's soul, pulsed. He felt him do something a lot like biting his lower lip, and a wordless groan of pleasure echoed through Sam's body.

_**You're really sensitive.**_ There was a jittery quality to Dean's voice now, reminded Sam of how hard it was to think clearly when he was horny. _**Thought you'd've practically built up a callus, 'cause you had to be jerking it every day. Right? Cooped up that tiny cabin?**_

Sam prickled some, would've commented on that, but Dean dipped into his slit. Sam saw it widening and then precome being tongued out. It hung thick and translucent in the air before falling like the rain outside.

Sam's vision sharpened again, Dean's eyes going black.

For a long time, Dean just teased him. He got slowly rougher and rougher, working Sam almost up to climax before going instantly back to feather-light touches and bringing him away from the edge. Sam was blushing, sweating, panting, his head tipped back, his eyes aimed unseeing at the ceiling. A frustrated moan rolled out of him every time his orgasm was denied.

The amount of pre drooling out of him was insane. He'd never had anything like it before. His pubic hair was sticky and matted, his thighs wet. Dean was practically milking him and Sam couldn't do anything about it. He was a prisoner inside his own body, held firmly in place by his wrists and ankles.

_**And you like that, don't you?**_ Dean purred to him.

His smoke was starting to prickle and fizz inside Sam. He wasn't sure what that meant, but when he closed his eyes, he could see black-green pulsing right behind his lids.

The touches suddenly got firmer, more frantic. The hands were all over, Sam's base, his balls, his shaft, his cockhead. The thing that mimicked a mouth was there, too, slicking rapidly up and down him, precome rolling around it like a miniature tidal wave. It clenched tight.

There was an unexpected blast of pleasure back up between Sam's hips, flooding his stomach with heat. Tears prickled behind his eyes. His face tingled as he mewled, arching his back. It was only because Dean was still holding him "tied" in place that Sam didn't fall right out of the chair.

Sam's thoughts were scattered, paper swirling in a storm drain, Dean taking him apart by working his prostate like a worry stone cradled in one big, rough hand. That image somehow made it even better.

Sam's orgasm was like thunder, huge and deafening. Lightning-ignited fireworks went off in his stomach and groin, every part of him stimulated. He bucked wildly, but Dean held him in place, under control, at his mercy. That only made him come harder.

The sheer intensity hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes. He could've drowned in it and would've loved every second. There was so much it was like coming twice. Two climaxes in one, massive, fitted together like puzzle pieces, twined around each other like Dean's smoke was inside him. The both of them finishing together, same time, same body. Sam was howling inside his head, couldn't even talk.

_**Talk about mutual orgasm.**_

That sounded like Dean. But locked into this kind of pleasure, the two of them were so blurred together it could've been Sam, too. Or both of them, at once. The same as how they were coming.

Sam collapsed back into the chair when the tsunami let go of him, a wave washing up, spent, on a distant shore. He felt all fuzzy and loose, vision spotty, limbs hanging like dead weights. He was suddenly yanked up when smoke streamed out of his mouth, choking him for a few seconds, but then he slumped down again like a puppet with its strings sliced. He stayed there, panting, for god-knew-how-long until Dean came up behind him, back in his own body.

Dean helped Sam up from the chair, onto shaky, near-useless legs. There was come on the table, Sam noticed distantly. Dripping off the edge, the underside. Sam's arm over his shoulders, Dean got Sam's boots off before he took him into the bathroom, then sat him down on the toilet. Sam blinked up at him as he pulled off his jeans and then his boxer-briefs, tossing them into the tub. Dean went to wipe him down with wet toilet paper, and Sam gasped at the touch of the cold water, every nerve in his body still sparking and sensitive. It felt good to get cleaned up, though. Everything from his navel to his knees felt sticky.

Sam half-fell, half-leaned forward, so his chin was on Dean's shoulder and his arms were draped around him. He wanted the contact and Dean felt so warm, smelled so nice.

"That was _so _good," Sam gushed, a giant, stupid smile plastered across his face. "That was the best I've ever had. It was so good."

Dean straightened him up and smiled at him. "Yeah, I know it was. Who'd've thought you were such a kinky son of a bitch?" He grabbed a threadbare towel and started drying Sam off. "I mean, not like you spent the better part of a decade holed up in the ass-end of Nowhere, Colorado, experimenting on monsters."

Sam laughed easily.

"'S the first time I've ever done that," he whispered to Dean. "Been tied up. Sort of. During sex." A cloudy memory surfaced, djinn-induced hallucination. "For real. I've never done any kind of…bondage. Control…play. Whatever it's called. I don't think I knew for sure I liked it, I didn't even…know there was a word for it."

"I'm sure glad you enjoyed yourself." Dean patted Sam's shoulder, and then he straightened up, and Sam wished he could still feel Dean's feelings because now he looked sober, almost guilty. "But I definitely screwed up back there, and…I know it."

"What d'you mean?" Sam asked him, surprised.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, looked away, and his eyes were black for a slice of a second.

"You were right. What you said earlier, 'bout how it wasn't part of the deal…we should've talked about it beforehand. I just. Didn't know I was gonna do it 'til the time came, y'know? But I should've stuck to keeping it _just _a training session, since that's what we both agreed to." He grimaced. "And I shouldn't've ignored your nos. No means no, even if…I could tell you were enjoying it. I don't want you to think I'm some kind of – I've never pushed past somebody's no before. Not unless they had a safeword. That's another thing I should've done, given you one of those." He eyed Sam for a second, then began, "See, it's a word that you can – "

"I know what a safeword is," Sam interrupted. "Dean." He reached for his hand, damp and cool. "It's fine, okay? I'm fine. I liked it, and we can do it better next time. Plan it out, use actual rope…or cuffs. But we probably wanna tape up the cuffs first. Me bleeding on the bed might be a little bit of a mood-killer."

Dean relaxed bit by bit as Sam spoke, he could see that even through the haze of the afterglow. He smiled at him, a flash of teeth.

"So you wanna do it externally next time, huh? I can get that." Half-playfully, he added, "Guessing you don't want me inside you again. Ever, probably."

"I didn't say that." Sam pulled Dean down, into a kiss, and the sulfur in his mouth tasted like home.


	2. Of Holy War and Holy Need

_While Sam's in Purgatory and Hell, Dean and Castiel have a conversation._

**_WARNING: Contains spoilers up to Ch. 34 of _Chasing Glory**

* * *

Dean knew Death was coming back through that squirming, thrashing rip without Sam. Kind of a given; the soft, constant shine on his amulet had even cut out the second Sam was gone. But still, when Death stepped through alone, inches from him, Dean's first knee-jerk impulse was to rip that big-ass scythe off him and crack his skinny chest in two.

Death smiled at him like he could read his mind. Dean couldn't see his true face like he could angels and other demons, didn't think it was really a vessel he was in, but there was definitely...something back there, high behind that gaunt human face. Something shaped kinda like a skull. But also wrong enough to make his smoke grain into razor needle points inside his meat.

But he didn't spook easy, especially not these days.

"Every single one of your loose ends is tied into that Messiah tight enough to break you, aren't they?" Death observed. "And you're so very _angry_." He smiled. The skull-thing smiled. "Don't worry. Give it a couple millennia, and those fires will start to bank. Though I'm betting that you and I will be seeing each other again, in a more intimate setting than this one, before that can happen."

Death looked back and forth between Dean and Castiel. "I don't really care whether or not you two kill each other. Not as if reaping you will present any trouble. But if you do, could you try to keep the light show to a minimum? It would be better for me, not to mention for Sam, if as little attention as possible were drawn to this spot."

"Can't make any promises," Dean replied, and Death's eyes settled on him. It felt like somebody had just nailed his smoke to his bones.

"Quite a way to speak to the being currently responsible for the soul you've hitched your entire existence to," Death commented. "Good thing I find you more amusing than irritating...for now, at least."

He strode between Dean and Castiel, eyes sliding off Dean and his scythe disappearing between steps, like he'd just tucked it away.

"I'll be back when twenty-four hours are up," Death told them. "To seal the rift, behind Sam if he makes it, and make sure that Purgatory doesn't _leak_. Until then...if either of you try anything. As in, anything in the realm of trying to pierce the Veil on your own." He turned, fixed the two of them with one dark eye. "I'll know."

Then Death left, and Dean put some much-needed distance between himself and Castiel.

Now he was leaned up against a tree, real eyes out (maybe that was a mistake, hammered home his damn necklace wasn't glowing and why) and fixed on the point where Death opened and closed the portal into Purgatory. Seconds ticked by even slower than they did for him in Hell, where every minute was two hours. Having Sam gone someplace Dean knew he couldn't reach him felt like something had been ripped out of him from just under his skin, something he hadn't thought anybody would ever be able to take this far away from him again.

It hurt to be wrong about that, and it pissed him off that it hurt so much. Even though he ought to be used to it by now.

The constant, underlying need to break, to kill, strong as hunger used to be, sang loud right now. There was a fishhook in his smoke, tugging insistent, a counterweight to the steady burn of the amulet around his neck, a stinging poison reminder of what he'd had to let in. What he was keeping from Sam. It wasn't urgent, though, wasn't gonna tear Dean in half if he didn't go right this second, and his Lord was just gonna have to sit tight and wait besides. Dean wasn't budging 'til a giant, shaggy head of coffee-colored hair broke back into this world.

"I can't believe Death hasn't crushed you, by now. The way you speak to him."

Dean's shoulders hitched half an inch higher. That gravelly-ass voice made him want to rip Castiel's vocal cords out through his ears every time he heard it.

He settled for muttering, "Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you?"

Castiel only replied after a long pause. "My personal feelings don't matter. What does is how badly your loss would hurt Sam. You should try to rein yourself in."

Dean snorted. "Just got Sam's best interests at heart, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Hate to break it to you, but the position of guardian monster's already been filled. Not taking any new applicants." Dean flicked a hand. "Just dump your resume in the trash and save us the trip."

Castiel was quiet for a long time.

"I'm not a monster," he said, slowly.

Dean hated doing it, but he looked at him. That aura, blinding, shaped like the northern lights but all tiny and shitty. Flat blue-white when Castiel first showed up, but the longer he was around, the more colors crept through it, and Dean had at least figured out they were feelings but had no idea what they meant. Some kind of denim shade was in there now. Maybe he wished he was wearing jeans instead of those dumbass slacks.

His head (entire upper half, really) was lost in the center of that aura, too bright for Dean to look at or make out anything inside. Not that he wanted to. The vessel overlaid the whole thing like tissue paper on top of a magazine page, and Dean got the feeling the "real" angel was way too big to be in the space he was seeing him in. Gross.

He had wings, too, obviously. Maybe blue-tinged, maybe that was just the aura, but they were mostly black. Not the black of Dean's smoke, though. He couldn't have explained the difference. He was black like rot, ash. Castiel felt like the night sky.

Dean fucking hated that. All of it. Asshole just _looked _like he'd been built to think he was better than everything else, and that that gave him the right to dick around in people's lives.

Dean looked away, clearing his throat. "Sure thing, Junkless Wonder."

Castiel was silent for long enough Dean started to think he might leave him alone for the rest of the long, dark night he had ahead of him. Of course he just had to go and wreck those hopes. If Dean could get a real headache, he'd have had one since Castiel touched down. Just being around the guy, or thing, or whatever made him feel like his veins had teeth and were trying to eat each other.

"Even if you don't believe it, Dantalion, I do have Sam's wellbeing in mind, at all times," Castiel said. The name was salt in Dean's smoke. "Myself and all of Heaven."

"Oh, yeah, bullshit. I've seen exactly what your brand of 'wellbeing' looks like, and I know Sam ain't interested in it. I definitely ain't." Dean jabbed a thumb at himself, felt the tip of it tingle when it got close to his amulet. "His 'wellbeing' depends on him being as far away from anything with wings as possible, and I'll do whatever I have to do to get that for him, no matter how long it takes. His life's more than fucked up enough right now, I'm not gonna let you and the rest of your flock ruin what's left." He pressed back against the tree. "I've seen what that looks like."

Castiel didn't say anything, but this time, Dean knew better than to think he was gonna keep his mouth shut.

Sure enough: "You're talking about the Prophet."

"Kevin." Pushing off the tree, Dean spun to face Castiel full on, dirt and snow spraying off his heels. "His name's _Kevin_. We all have fucking names, Castiel, we're not the 'Prophet,' the 'Messiah,' the 'Knight.' We're not...freaking tarot cards, we have _names_. And by the way?" Dean pointed to himself. "Mine's Dean. Not Dantalion."

"Dean was your human name." Castiel's light was kinda purpley now, bruise-colored at the fringes, feathers pricked up some on his wings. "You're a demon now."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Dean demanded. "D'you think I need a reminder every time you open your mouth?"

When Castiel didn't answer, Dean turned away from him, shaking his head. "No wonder you're as fucking clueless as you are. Sam's best interests...right. Don't make me laugh."

He walked to the spot that Sam had passed through. He could feel it, when he concentrated. The weakness, how thin the veil was. He could practically smell Purgatory when he closed his eyes, and...the very faintest whiff of Hell. The rot and the sulfur.

He remembered the mold. God, did he ever remember the mold. Thinking about it, about Sam in it, didn't help his mood.

"Y'know, I thought you actually had my back for once," he told Castiel without looking at him. "Not that I want or need your help. But just saying, you were pretty quick to throw Sam to the wolves when you found out your last pet project was in Hell, weren't you? Maybe serving up the latest scoop on your plan to the demons."

"Sam wanted to go," Castiel pointed out quietly.

"You didn't give a shit about that before!" Dean said with a laugh. "'Sides. Sam had no idea what he was going into. You did. Admit it, you couldn't care less about Sam...your only concern's your bottom line. You and your bosses. Guess it doesn't even surprise me about Anna, she was always a crazy bitch." He paused, more for effect than anything. "Fucked like it, too."

"Don't," Castiel said flatly. "You've tried this before, it didn't work."

But his aura was an ugly color and oh, Dean needed this.

"I'm serious," Dean told him, shaking his head. "You should've seen the way she clawed my back up. Wouldn't even heal me after, either, liked me marked. Way she rocked my car, thought for sure she was gonna wear out the shocks. And the _screaming_ \- "

There was a flash, and when Dean looked at Castiel, he was blazing. All the way down to between the feathers of the wings he'd spread aggressively wide. Dean put a casual hand on the angel blade in his back pocket.

"Oh, right," he said. "It doesn't bother you."

Castiel snapped his wings shut and turned away from him.

Lots of silence. Maybe half an hour. Long enough for Castiel's one-angel fireworks show to die down. Then, haltingly, he said, "I do care about Sam, and so do my superiors. I can only hope they'll agree with the reasoning behind my decision to allow Sam to retrieve the Proph - " He stopped himself. "Kevin."

That got Dean to look over his shoulder. "Wait. They aren't the ones who ordered this?" It took serious willpower not to bring Anna up again. "Thought you guys didn't wipe your asses without approval from on high. Or at least you wouldn't, if you had to shit."

"No," Castiel admitted, "they didn't issue an order. I...didn't tell them."

"Whatsamatter, afraid of the beat-down you're gonna get?" Dean grinned sharply. "Are they gonna go nuclear on your feathery ass for putting their precious Messiah at risk?"

"That is...one of my concerns," Castiel allowed. "That, and the fact I disobeyed direct orders by allowing Sam into Purgatory. To continue on the path he decided on himself. I thought, in the moment, that it may be better to ask forgiveness than permission, but now." His wings twitched. "I'm no longer sure."

"Doesn't God deal in forgiveness?" Dean asked sarcastically.

"He does," Castiel replied, "but His angels do not exactly make a habit of it."

An hour passed without either of them saying anything. Two. Three. Dean only knew because he looked at his watch, impatient for twenty-four hours to be up and dreading it both. All time felt the same to him, shitty and never-ending.

There were little lives running around out there in the forest. He could smell them, hear them, feel them, and the filthiest parts of him craved blood. The heat of muscle with the skin ripped fresh off it would quiet down the places in him that always hurt. That were hurting worse right now because Castiel was here, and Sam wasn't, and there was that tugging on his smoke that meant something he'd never wanted to see again needed to talk to him. Tug. Tug. _Tug._

Dean wrapped a hand around his amulet, focused on the gentle burn, and stayed put.

Something fucking weird was happening, and he hated it.

Basically, it was that the only thing he wanted more right now than to crush a squirming, breathing thing to red slush between his hands was to say something. He wasn't gonna. Reminded himself how much he despised the angel standing way too close to him, even yards away, and hated Castiel and the whole rest of his package deal with every brand of loathing Alastair had taught him down in the Pit. He wallowed in it.

Dean fed off stuff that felt like this, usually. It was like sharpening a blade. Just how things like him worked. But this time? Just didn't do the trick.

Not surprising. Worked less and less since Sam crashed into his life, but this was even worse than usual.

Castiel wasn't looking at anything at all when Dean stole glances at him. Dean knew he wasn't checking in with the mother ship; he'd seen what he looked like when he was doing that, thumb-things on the outer edges of his wings up and out like antennae, and he wasn't doing that now.

Dean didn't want to say anything. He might actually go crazy if he didn't.

"Longer you wait, worse it's gonna be."

Picking up a conversation from hours ago didn't ruffle Castiel's feathers any. "I'm assuming you speak from experience."

Dean fumbled. "I mean, yeah, just in general." _Dammit_. Should've kept his mouth shut.

"You...know I'm familiar with the taxonomy of demons," Castiel said. "I've dealt with Knights in particular in the past. I'm aware of the needs of your kind, the…" He seemed to be struggling for a word. "...system in place."

Dean grunted and looked back at Death's portal, an invisible healed scar. Castiel didn't take the hint.

"I'm also aware you're - " He stopped. " - were shared between two Lords and a Prince of Hell. Which is highly unusual."

"Yep." This was a huge mistake.

A pause. "It must have been extremely unpleasant, as well."

Dean gusted out a breath, dragged a hand through his hair. "It was."

"I'm familiar with unusual arrangements that...go against the way things are supposed to work," Castiel started cautiously. Dean wasn't looking at him, but could feel the weird, pinkish shades in his light anyway. "Traditionally, for seraphs, a captain commands a garrison, and that captain receives orders from above. But at the moment, an angel from several levels higher has descended in order to direct my garrison, and me in particular. As if he were our captain."

"Oh, that must have your wings in a twist, with the rulebook you've got stuck up your ass."

"For the time being," Castiel replied stiffly, "it's a necessity. I'm told it's a necessity. So that there is no mishandling of the situation, which is extremely delicate, with all the moving pieces involved. I suppose I understand why it was felt this superior needed to supervise things directly." _Shff_ \- feathers rustling. "His name is Zachariah."

Dean snorted. "Douchebag." He felt Castiel's eyes on him, so he glanced over. "What? 'Zachariah.' That's a douchebag name."

"It's...his name," Castiel said slowly, puzzled.

"Honestly, 'Castiel' is kind of a douchebag name, too."

"Then shouldn't 'Dantalion' be a - 'douchebag name?'"

"Trust me," Dean replied, "it absolutely is." He rolled his shoulders. "So. Douchebag Zach's the one who's got you all fluffed up, huh?"

"I suppose." Castiel hesitated. "He's very results-driven, you could say. Eager to follow the orders that have in turn been given to him. And of course he's my superior and is correct in all things, he knows and understands much more than I do, and I accept that, but I can't help but wonder - "

"Ooh, better watch that," Dean interrupted, smugness crawling through his smoke. "Are you even supposed to wonder? They're gonna get on you for that, too."

Dark blue again as Castiel continued, shading towards rainy-day gray. "I can't help but wonder if Zachariah does not grasp the exact specifics. He hasn't been on Earth or interacted much with humanity in recent decades, and I'm concerned that that may be coloring his judgment. He hasn't met Sam. He knows and sees him only as the Messiah, and he cannot grasp the depth of Sam's attachment to you, or the level of his commitment to the Trials. He believes that force is the best and only option, whereas I feel a lighter touch may be necessary.

"Zachariah...in fact, all of my brothers and sisters believe that there is only one path to be taken, that it is already predestined. That is what they want me to guide Sam towards. And they're correct, I acknowledge my insolence. My lack of faith. And yet…" Castiel's wings sagged. "I remain unconvinced."

Dean had to mull that one over for a while. He couldn't be hearing what he thought he was hearing, but that was the conclusion he kept on coming to.

"Are you actually trying to tell me that you, a fucking angel of the Lord," Dean began slowly, "are questioning God?"

"Of course not!" Castiel's wings jumped, aura bright and panicky all of a sudden. "I would never. No angel ever would. One of my caste isn't even capable of it. I'm just not convinced that His plans have played out so linearly in the past. It seems as if…" Castiel raised a hand, moved his fingers. A line drug itself in the snow and pine litter. "...there are multiple options at hand…" The lines branched out into a tree. "...and the one that we intended upon when I left Heaven…" The lines had been smooth, but now the straightest one went crooked, jagged. "...may no longer be the best." One by one, the lines stilled, until only one remained. "Upon proper evaluation." The last line stopped right in front of Dean's boots.

He looked down at it, then back up at Castiel. "Then you're questioning your bosses."

"_No." _Dark, ugly streaks in his aura. "I just think that they may be out of touch. Unaware of how all the minute details in a situation change its overall makeup, here on Earth."

Dean shook his head. The spike of vindictive glee he felt was almost disappointing, because it was so much smaller than he wanted it to be. "Somebody's got their halo on backwards, don't they?"

"Nothing is as I expected it to be," Castiel replied. "Least of all Sam."

Dean caught himself almost smiling, but couldn't stop it. "Yeah, I know how that one feels."

He almost grabbed his amulet, but scrubbed at the back of his head with a hand instead and looked again at the spot where the portal was gonna be. He hated how messed up he felt inside when Sam wasn't here, and he hated how that one positive mention by Castiel had flipped some kind of switch in him he couldn't figure out how to turn back off.

"You oughta just go ahead and tell Zachariah now," he told Castiel. "Take it on the chin. If he's anything like Alastair, waiting's only gonna make it worse." He hadn't meant to bring up Alastair. Last thing he wanted to do right now (_tug tug tug_) was talk about Alastair. But… "See, he didn't care if he got the results he wanted. If I fucked up and didn't tell him immediately...well. Even if I told him right away, it was bad, but it was way worse if he found out later. Like, this one time, a hunter we were looking for? She wasn't where we thought she'd be. I found her, but I didn't let Alastair know about the snag I hit. Other demon did. So he made me bite off and eat my own tongue, since I couldn't be bothered to use it." Dean shrugged. "Didn't so much mind the taste, actually. It was more the gristle."

Nothing but silence from Castiel. His wings didn't even move. But his aura had gone all soft, and dim. Looking at him, resentment rolled through Dean like coffin nails pressed along his spine. The last thing he needed was this glowing, fluttering, holier-than-thou pain in his ass feeling some kind of pity for him.

"What?" Dean demanded, wanting to get over there and pry out Castiel's own tongue with his angel blade.

"Nothing," Castiel replied neutrally. "I wouldn't have expected anything different from a demon. That sort of relationship is fairly standard for a Knight and Lord, especially when tensions are as high in Hell as they are now, and the Knight is…" His vessel eyed Dean. "Rebellious."

"I wasn't," Dean responded. "Not back then. Only started about eight months ago." _And stopped around two._

"I imagine things were worsened by the fact your loyalties were stretched among three," Castiel went on. "It would be much more comfortable to be bound to only one liege."

"Fuck off with that demon instincts bullshit," Dean complained. "The only instincts I've got are the one to kill and the one to hurt. That's what you're trying to get Sam to understand, right?"

"As a Knight of Hell, your need to serve and protect is as much a fact as mine is, as a seraph."

"Fact or nah, one master would be just as bad as three." Had only talked to one again so far, hadn't felt a whole lot of difference there. "Same amount of shit, just in one bucket."

"I'm not necessarily talking about a master."

"Shut up."

More time passed. Hours later, after dawn had broken, Dean looked up at the sunrise through the trees and told himself they still had plenty of time. He didn't need to worry. If Alastair had caught Sam in Hell, or if anybody had, the tugging in his smoke would be ripping him in two right now, and it wasn't. Even though it was getting more insistent by the second.

It grated on him all over again, although maybe not as bad this time for whatever stupid reason, when Castiel spoke up.

"I was surprised when I first saw you wearing that. The day after our solstice celebration."

Dean automatically looked down at the amulet on his chest, somehow knowing Castiel was talking about it. It was almost molten in the light of the sunrise sifting through all the black branches, bouncing off the snow, and he could almost pretend that that was the same soft glow that wrapped it whenever he was close to Sam. But that was so faint, so subtle.

He hooked a thumb under the cord, felt a buzzing in his bones. "You mean this?"

"Yes." A pause. "Do you know what it is?"

"I picked up it's got some kinda holy mojo going on."

"It does," Castiel confirmed. "Sam very obviously had no idea, or he wouldn't have given it to you." His aura was kind of an uncertain turquoise, head of his vessel tipped to the side when Dean turned to look at him. "Doesn't it hurt you?"

Dean snorted. "Course it does."

"I suspected as much." Castiel nodded. "And yet you still wear it."

Dean wrapped a hand around it again. It seared dully at his flesh and made his smoke roil, a different pain than salt or holy water or iron. It reminded him of stretching a muscle or draining the infection out of a wound, sweet pain, the kind he'd forgotten existed until he met Sam.

"I've felt way worse," Dean replied, "for way longer, for _way _shittier reasons."

The sun was almost fully up before Castiel spoke again. His voice was soft, had the air of somebody jabbing a rattlesnake with a stick.

"Did they ever tell you what you were?"

Dean thought back to his last conversation with Alastair, the most recent one. The fury, the wounds worn in his flesh that he had to spend precious energy erasing before he went back to Sam. The reflexive guilt at what came out during that, finally, and the hate.

"Yeah. They hinted."

Around midmorning, Castiel said, "I mean Sam no harm, Dean."

Dean looked at him.

"In fact, I'll do my very best to try and ensure that he remains safe," Castiel continued. "Not just safe, but...on a path he chooses for himself." He paused. "Though I'd still very much prefer he didn't finish the Second Trial."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean asked. He couldn't remember him ever saying it in so many words before. Not to Dean.

"You could use the reassurance, empty as you may find it," Castiel replied. "Perhaps the two of us have more in common than we initially believed."

Dean wanted, almost on instinct and without any heat behind it, to laugh in his fucking face. Rip feathers out of his wings, walk away and leave, answer the tugging in his smoke. What he wanted more than anything was for Sam to come home, or to just go in there and get him back.

But he just squeezed the amulet harder.

"Doubt it, Cas. But sure."


End file.
